Stories. Closed eyes, smelling a comfort around, hearing the whistle of the pressure cooker from a neighbours house, a soft voice narrating a story that has me completely engulfed in the emotion of the moment. Thats how I remember my story session from my childhood. The difference maybe in the fact that the voice sharing the story was not that of my mother, father or even a grandparent. It was of my dad’s eldest brother. Somehow when I look back to my childhood I feel he was the one who played the part of a grandparent in a childhood that was barren of that emotion. (Never met 3 of my grandparents and the 4th one passed away after her years of diabetes and paralysis when I was only 6). We called him bade papa and being the eldest in the family we could run to him for many things. I was a bit spoilt as I always felt for some reason I was his preferred one. By the time I was born, his children were in late teens and older. He pretty much was the only one who had time to spare for a talkative child. He also had the patience I must add to hear non stop chatter.
Having grown up in a house with parents, a younger sibling, and extended family (dads brothers family) one tends to have no distinction of calling some a part of nuclear family and some extended. They all were and are family. When mom dad were busy doing stuff that parents do like managing work and home, my school work, cooking, teaching, revising, values and many other things that we parents do now, he (bade papa) would come back from his work early evenings. He would freshen up and change into a white (always white) short kurta and pyjama and enjoy his evening cup of tea. He often would get daily updates from his kids and us. When everyone had gone off to do the things they had to or wanted to or needed to do I would spend time sitting with his listening to anything he would say.
Stories mean different things to different people. For some they need to be happily ever after. For others they need to have good and bad. For me stories need a flow of emotions and a story teller is one who makes it all come alive. Bade papa had a calm voice always. Rarely had I ever heard him raise it. In his soothing, soft voice I heard stories that ranged from those published in Readers Digest many many years ago, to stories of my ancestors and our family, to stories of the Mughals. The charm in the stories were that they way they were told they held my attention, and I was always craving for more. The way he managed to break a story into two parts, one that related facts and another that spoke of emotions involved. The action and effects of that action were both an integral part of the story sessions.
Once the story ended we started another very important step. The part where he asked me to think about it and analyze it. Of course at that time I was too young to understand all this, I just enjoyed that he wanted my opinion. It was in these discussions that we created a bond that was beyond an uncle n niece or if I may say so a parent n child. This is when he made me understand that one can respect another being irrespective of age. This is where I understood that different people look at same thing differently. This is when I learnt that it is ok to thing, be different and stand by what we feel is correct. He taught me the values of truth, acceptance, sharing and respect.
The story sessions with him are etched in my memory. he is physically not with us today and we miss him terribly but I will always cherish these moments together. He will always be my storyteller.
Always
Ekta's musings 